


To the Maw of Tomorrow

by Starships



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Gore, Love, M/M, Stubborn Boys Giving Love, Stubborn Boys Needing Love, secret santa fic exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21892906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starships/pseuds/Starships
Summary: Estinien visits Aymeric after his friend survives yet another assassination attempt. They each want the other to know how stupid they are.A relatively spoiler free post-Shadowbringers love story.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 7
Kudos: 94





	To the Maw of Tomorrow

Aymeric debates for the sixth time if removing the crusts is excessive, and rearranges the date tartlets for the seventh.

He has been meticulous. A thick, dark chestnut table is laden heavily with food in his study, and he has given the de Borel attendants the evening off in anticipation of Estinien's ire. He had unfortunately done so  _ before _ moving the table, and he winces as the heat of fresh blood soaks his bandages; they will need a change before his guest arrives. It wouldn't do for the storm cloud that is his dearest friend and love to be even angrier with him, much less to tattle on him to the chirurgeon when he is already recovering impeccably.

He takes long strides to his chambers to replace his linen bandages and tunic. Something as ephemeral as blood as never stopped Estinien. The eyes of Nidhogg cut into his flesh and his mind and still, he held fast. Aymeric winces as his blue waistcoat falls away, as the wrappings stick to his flushed skin. In a fit of anger he gives a sharp pull, taking scab with fabric; Estinien has bones and heart and head of iron, and Aymeric will be damned if he himself cannot weather a few assassination attempts when their Azure Dragoon weathers worse with their Warrior on a daily basis.

He will  _ not _ be the weak link here.

He chooses a high-necked black tunic and run his hands through his hair. He is unusually agitated today; he expects Estinien's anger at his injury, but his own impatience with it is novel.

Leadership chafes, and he feels the bondage keenly.

"I thought you would be in the room with the food."

Aymeric does not turn, hastily covering bandages already mottled with fresh blood underneath the tunic. He carefully does not wince as he fits his arms into the garment, even though he is turned away.

It does not matter; Estinien sees.

"The food is for you, my friend," Aymeric says lightly, finally turning and fixing a smile to his face.

"Don't," his friend hisses. " _ Do not  _ look at me like that."

Aymeric grimaces, and for once today it has nothing to do with physical pain.

"Fine," he says, unable to muster more.

The unease between them shifts and roils uncomfortably. They are both angry; with each other, with themselves.

"Please come with me and eat. You never eat enough, and I worry about you."

Estinien bites down a feral growl, but the sound of it slams into his teeth all the same. " _ You _ worry about  _ me _ ? Aymeric you are  _ still bleeding. _ "

"I'm not. The doctor assures me I'm healing rapidly."

"I can  _ smell _ it, you pig shite oaf. I smelled it through the window and I can smell it now."

"You didn't use the door?"

"Your doctor is a thrice damned idiot."

"Estinien, the door is perfectly serviceable. I don't see why--"

" _ I'll kill him myself if he tells you you are 'healing rapidly' one more time--" _

"--you insist on my window. It's frigid and you always leave it open."

Aymeric jolts as Estinien's armored fist slams into the stone of his chambers. The dust of broken stone settles lazily on his rug, and he finds it mesmerizing -- a gentle cascade born from a burst of violence.

He is well versed in what comes next.

"How many times," Estinien begins, and no, this is wrong, his voice is too hoarse, too raw, "how many times do I have to come home unknowing of whether you live?"

Aymeric shrugs with one shoulder, channeling Hien's armored nonchalance as strongly as he can. His wound pulls, an ever present chain.

"How many times do I have to stay?"

The bell of silence rings for many uncomfortable heartbeats. Finally, Estinien admits, "As many as it takes to see it through."

Aymeric nods his head sharply in agreement. Any sting in his eyes is only from the hole in his stomach. "As many as it takes."

They each step forward, an instinctual and simultaneous approach into the other's orbit.

Aymeric cups Estinien's armored cheek in his large hand, stroking his lips with his thumb. It is the only part of his friend reliably exposed, but it is not the only part he can reach.

"Eat with me. Sit with me." He breathes deeply, the heady tang of sweat and blood and oil filling his lungs. His voice began confidently, strong; it withers now to a scared and vulnerable whisper, but he refuses to shy away. He is done hiding from this.

"Stay. Please stay."

He feels the weight of Estinien's judgement though he cannot see his eyes. Finally, his mouth parts; instead of speaking he nips Aymeric's finger, his too-pink tongue licking the indent of his canine like a feral couerl.

"I smell cake," is all he says before he turns sharply on his heel and walks away.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Estinien eats like a wild dog.

Aymeric begins their usual routine of removing his friend's left gauntlet as he eats with his right, transferring the crustless sandwich to his bare fingers and removing the rest of his armor. His skin is still dirty, but if there is a day where Estinien will bathe before dinner, Aymeric hasn't seen it.

"What's different about these sandwiches?" Estinien asks, mouth full.

"They don't have crusts."

He unclasps the dragoon's helmet, unleashing a tumble of snowy hair stained the brown of old blood in places. Estinien stares at him.

"Nobles are insane."

"I'll keep the crusts on next time."

A date tartlet vanishes in its entirety into Estinien's maw. "It's just a waste," he says, staring at a second tart and visibly wondering if he can fit two at once.

Aymeric removes a gilded hairbrush from his desk, kept there for years now by necessity, begins working out the tangles as his friend eats.

"It is. I should have thought of that."

"No." His voice is curt, harsh. He swallows thickly and busies himself stacking slices of aged cheese. "Do not apologize for thinking of me."

The brush snags on a knot of blood and armor-matted strands. He starts to remove the bristles, but Estinien's hand stops him, his icy eyes boring through him.

"Pull it."

A stone drops through Aymeric's stomach at the challenge. This gravity has always been between them, but it has never before been taunted so.

Aymeric obeys.

The snarl of hair wrenches from Estinien's scalp and he moans gratefully and unashamedly at the pain. The physical relief of the ways they hurt each other made manifest, and he is starved for more. Starved for Aymeric.

He stands quickly, the finely carved oak chair tumbling to the study's floor. Prowling behind Aymeric he backs him into the table, drowning in his blown pupils, feeding on his rapid breaths and scarlet cheeks.

He clears the table in a single swoop, food and dishes and wine clattering to the floor.

"I thought you said that was wasteful!"

Aymeric's protest is cut off with a yelp as he is pushed down, down, back to the table, chest and neck open to the feast--

"I thought you said you weren't wounded."

"I'm fine, I told you--"

"You are not to  _ lie _ , you idiot, gods--"

"I will heal!"

"You will  _ sit. Still." _

The last is rumbled menacingly along the shell of his ear, Estinien's body scorching a path over the top of his own. His friend reaches into his boot and retrieves a dagger; Aymeric's eyes follow its cold glint as it cuts his clothing from his body, baring inch upon inch of carved muscles and scars and, most importantly, brightly stained linen.

Pointedly, Estinien lets the fabric fall to the table with a wet  _ slop _ . Aymeric's eyes widen.

"Gods. How long have I been bleeding?"

Estinien squeezes the dark fabric, presenting his crimson hand for inspection. "This long."

"Huh," Aymeric says intelligently. 

"Your brilliant doctor left you salves and moss, yes? Or shall I stitch this for you, instead?"

"I hardly need--"

But Estinien has already left him, slamming drawers open and closed in search of medical supplies. Aymeric tries to rise from the table but a withering glare has him reclined again; he steadies his breathing, steadies the spin of his head, unsure if he is dizzy from blood loss or whatever edge the two of them are teetering on.

He hopes they fall.

He wants it to hurt when they land.

Estinien returns with herbs and plants for packing his wound, fresh linen, and four silver ropes that formerly held House de Borel's draperies open.

He shrugs. "I expect you to struggle."

" _ Me?! _ " hisses Aymeric, growling even as he keeps his body limp and pliant for Estinien to arrange him to his liking in the closest dining chair. "You're the knuckle-headed--"

"Pig shite, if you're going to insult me use something decent--"

"Oaf, you said  _ oaf _ , Estinien, as though I'm even half so lumbering as you--"

They are both cut short by the grunt Aymeric can't quite swallow as his wound is packed with a fistful of duskfall moss and what for the life of him looks like glowing silt.

"What in the  _ world _ is that? Did you just rub magical  _ dirt  _ into me?"

"Hold it. Keep pressure."

" _ Estinien." _

His friend busies himself with the ropes, the finely woven silver hemp catching the candle light and glinting like a cheeky wink. Obediently, he keeps pressure on his stab wound; his blood still leaks between his fingers but the flow has slowed significantly. He marvels that he has not bled to death all the same -- the speed of his heartbeat is unceasing as Estinien holds his eyes, securing his ankles to the legs of the sturdy oaken chairs.

"Scuroglow aethersand," the dragoon murmurs. "From the First. She told me the Crystarium's alchemists use it for their worst wounds in the field. Wanted me to have it before I went back into Garlemald."

"Garlemald next, eh?"

"Aye."

One hand is removed from his wound at a time, each in turn bound to the chair. Aymeric has difficulty describing to himself how this feels; he is out of control, but tethered to the earth. He knows not what this means but is certain of what he feels. He wishes to tie Estinien here, to him, but supposes the reverse shall suffice.

Despite the blood, it is not as though he does not enjoy the calloused hands on his skin.

"What do you want, Estinien?"

A pause as his friend draws a lightning cluster from a satchel with a flint to strike it. Dimly, Aymeric realizes this is going to hurt.

"The same thing I have always wanted."

"You know I cannot read your mind, my friend."

"This is going to burn," Estinien says, holding his eyes with a hooded gaze and a viciously satisfied twist of his lips. He understands this, this need to hurt and be hurt, this need to affirm life.

He is glad they do it together, as they always have.

"Tell me what you want, and then you may do your worst."

“I had wanted to show you my worst already, but then you wouldn’t cease your  _ stubborn bleeding _ .”

His personal space is obliterated as his friend kneels, bending his spine into the weight of Aymeric's gravity. Their lips have only the distance of a breath between them.

"It’s you, my Lord Commander. Just you."

He strikes the flint and the crystal explodes within the wound, electricity activating the aethersand and jolting white fire into the very core of him. He cannot scream; the pain has made a gnarled root of his voice, lodged deep within him.

Just as quickly, the sensation vanishes and the ripple of a warm spring spreads through his cells. He thinks of swimming outside Ala Mhigo with the Warrior, the sun beating on their backs as she splashed him mercilessly, expending nearly all of her newly rested energy trying to dunk him. Her laugh rang like a bowl of spilled pearls on the marble floors of the Vault.

They had so little time, after Zenos. He feels a twist of envy in his gut that Estinien has seen her at all.

His wound is gone. An angry pink scar has pushed away the plant matter, and the newly grown nerves are tender, electric. He can feel them singing.

"Estinien," he whispers, and the word carries the weight of every decade of their lives they have shared.

Estinien, it seems, is also done waiting.

His friend surges forward, and it is with great frustration that Aymeric remembers he can only sit and receive him. All of his limbs are bound, his chest is bare and gooseflesh is pebbling against the chill of the room, and he has ceded all control.

Under the greedy and desperate onslaught of Estinien's lips, he realizes that his friend likely feels much safer this way. The thought grants him peace, patience. He  _ wants _ him to feel safe. Giving up control does not even register as a sacrifice in the face of such a gift.

Sharp canines pierce his lower lip and Estinien's tongue sucks the blood away. They are both slaves to this avarice, fucking each other with their mouths, wet sounds and moans growing in cadence as layers of restraint are viciously ripped away.

"Please," Aymeric whimpers, undone. He does not know what he is asking for, but Estinien seems to; he rips the ties of his trousers and, with the abruptness customary to him, swallows Aymeric's cock as deeply as he can.

Time and reality sway.

There is nothing beyond the snowy fields of Estinien's eyes, the blush high on his cheeks. The slurp of his tongue at the head of him. The gag as he pushes himself too far.

He does not know how long he is given the privilege of fucking himself into this holy mouth; the toll of the bell is meaningless. Aymeric's hips roll higher while Estinien nuzzles his public hair lovingly with his nose, but he can only teeter on the precipice until his friend surprises him by taking his bound hand and lacing their fingers intimately together.

Their palms meet, and with an unrestrained shout Aymeric holds on for dear life and spills his seed down his dearest’s hungry throat.

Estinien stands, resting his lips tenderly on Aymeric’s forehead.

"I am going to draw us a bath," he says. "And you are going to allow me to bathe you, and feed you, and put you to bed. You will then rest for the next two days, while I stay. Everything after that we will figure out together. Do you understand, my Lord Commander?"

Sweat soaked, pants open, cock softening and skin still covered in drying blood, Aymeric laughs. It is this joyous peal of love that breaks the yoke of loneliness rusting for so long around his heart.

Because finally, he does.

He does understand.

**Author's Note:**

> For my holiday sweetie, she knows who she is <3 
> 
> If you'd like a wholesome and debauched fic discord experience where we'll smother you with love and smut and kindness, come take a look.
> 
> https://discord.gg/3ddPp5g


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